


no one saw us this evening hand in hand

by derevko_child



Category: Ant-Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Ant-Man and the Wasp (2018) Spoilers, Conversations, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 16:24:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15538245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derevko_child/pseuds/derevko_child
Summary: This is not just a bad idea, this is theworstidea ever.A week after they rescue her mother from the quantum realm, Hope decides to drop by Scott’s house to say thank you.





	no one saw us this evening hand in hand

**Author's Note:**

> The characters aren't mine, yadda yadda. The mistakes and errors, though? All mine. ( _Edited: 6 Aug 2018_ )
> 
> Has also been translated to [Russian](https://ficbook.net/readfic/7232510/18432506) :)

This was a _bad_ idea.

Granted, it had been a good idea at first— she wanted her parents to have some alone time together for the first time since her mother returned from the quantum realm. She also wanted some time for herself, to let her brain process everything that’s happened in the past week-and-a-half. 

A leisurely tour around San Francisco in the middle of the week seemed relaxing.

So, she wakes up early that day and leaves a note, making sure to mention that she brought along her suit as a precaution and that she picked the most boring, non-descript car in the rally case. She tucks the note underneath an expensive bottle of wine she was saving for this moment, placing it in the middle of the dining table so it wouldn’t be missed.

(she bought the wine on whim after her father said that they might be able to rescue her mother; back then, she convinced herself that the $750 bottle was for a special occasion, not just for when her mother comes back.

Then, they had to run)

Her first stop is the Muir Woods park. 

In the two years of being chased by the government, it isn’t just the intricacies of quantum physics that she’s learned from Hank; she picked up a thing or two in the art of surveillance and counter-surveillance as well.

(as he liked to remind her whenever she raised her brow at him when he corrected her during training, aside from being one of SHIELD’s preeminent scientists, he was also a field agent)

The FBI might still be pursuing them, but they aren’t going to check the place where they got caught.

She takes in the crisp, cold air and quietly trudges through the trail, keeping in mind not to overexert herself. But the twinge in her shoulders and the soreness of her ribs are all but forgotten when she ventures deeper into the woods.

The peace and quiet soothes her, like a balm to her tired, overworked mind.

Before she leaves, she buys a blue bucket hat in the souvenir store and a bagel in the café.

Her next stop is Sausalito. She remembers going here with her parents one summer, eating ice cream while they walked by the waterfront area, counting the boats and the seagulls. She remembers sitting on Hank’s shoulders when she got too tired and her dad saying something that made her mom laugh so hard they had to get her a glass of water.

Hank never brought her back here after her mother disappeared.

In Sausalito, she soaks in the sun. Her sunglasses hide half of her face and her hat makes it easier to blend in the crowd.

(Hats aren’t exactly the best of disguises—their almost run-in with the feds in Berkeley proves that. Tourists, however, love hats. And the best place to vanish is in a crowd of hat-wearing tourists)

The ferry to San Francisco leaves just before lunch. At the last minute, she decides to grab a ticket and safely tucks the boring, non-descript car in her pocket. She sits beside a lovely couple from Chile and pretends to be absorbed with the guidebook she picked up from an empty chair on her way to the docks.

She lingers long enough in Fisherman’s Wharf to snap a picture of the seals lounging in the pier and sends it to Hank. She promptly receives two replies: a smiling face emoji and a long block of text from Hank, explaining that it was Janet who sent the first message— he’s teaching her how to text and he thought it would be easier to start with emojis.

Hope laughs and replies only with emojis.

On her way to the tram turnaround, she sees a double decker tour bus dropping off passengers to the wharf and for a moment, she stares at it and considers whether it’s a more anonymous alternative to the cable car.

She’s also never gone on a bus tour around San Francisco, either.

( _“Not even on a date?” Scott asks as he positions the sparring mats on the floor._

_“Why would you go on a date in a tour bus going around the city you live in?” she asks, genuinely confused._

_A bewildered expression appears on his face, “You mean you’ve never gone on a tour bus and pretended to be from somewhere else and speak with an accent?”_

_Her brows furrows, “And_ you _have?”_

 _Scott drops the mat, “We should go. I mean it. We definitely should go on a double decker bus and we’ll say we’re from Canada, and that…” he frowns, exaggeratedly, knitting his brows to match hers, “We were bored in the h_ ou _se and we saw an adver_ tis _ement on the TV ab_ u _t going on a_ ho _liday and we thought, why not go_ u _t and ab_ u _t in San Francisco?”_

 _They had to delay training for an hour because she couldn’t stop laughing._ )

Hope quickly weighs the pros and cons of a fugitive from the law going on a bus tour around San Francisco. Hank gave her a general overview on how federal agents operate and she took it upon herself to do some research during the little free time they’ve had during the past two years. The feds expect them to keep a low-profile after what happened last week.

(and they _are_ keeping a low-profile, it’s just that now that they’ve found her mother, there isn’t anything to do and she’s so, _so_ bored)

And considering that with her braided hair and her sunglasses, she’s been twice-mistaken as a college student this morning, she also has the benefit of not looking like the former CEO of what used-to-be a billion-dollar company.

So… why not?

(Her name is Estelle, she’s from Toulouse, France, and she’s in San Francisco for a business trip. Today’s her last day and she wants to see more of the city before she leaves)

She pretends to confuse the pennies with the dimes and apologizes profusely in French as the the tour guides graciously help her out. They tell her she has nothing to worry about – our coins are confusing – and they advise her to sit at the top deck to get the ‘best view of the city’. So, she sits behind three siblings from Manila who all appear to regret sitting behind a family of grumpy Germans. A group of excited grandmas from Tokyo sit behind her.

Everyone’s wearing a hat.

“So, if you’ve seen the news last week, you’d know we had a bit of excitement around the area.” The tour guide starts, “You know, the last time we had that sort of thing happen, a building completely disappeared into the night. They’re still looking for it.”

 _We’re not_ , Hope thinks before tuning him out, choosing to watch the city unfold in front of her instead.

She joins in with the chorus of oohs and aahs at the tourist attractions, taking pictures and sending it to Hank. And for every text she sends, she gets two replies—one from her mom and one from her dad.

It’s ridiculous.

As the guide enthusiastically shares factoids and anecdotes about the sights and sounds of San Francisco, she finds herself reminiscing whenever they pass through familiar streets and buildings. The city has changed so much in the past thirty years; her mother will barely recognize it.

(She’s definitely going to suggest to her dad that they do something like this, once her mother’s up to speed with present-day technology)

She decides to get off at the stop near Chinatown and drops a fifty in the tip box before stepping out of the bus and walking the opposite way. She strolls the streets, the downhill route lessening the pressure on her aching ribs, and she reaches Union Square after a few minutes.

There aren’t a lot of tourists walking around but she knows this part of the city like the back of her hand. 

She takes the empty seat on the bench near the information center to catch her breath, keeping her face turned away from the security cameras. To maintain the façade that she’s a tourist, she takes pictures of the buildings and refers to her guidebook, even going to the extent of changing the language of her phone to French.

Her eyes wander down the street where she sees a little girl skipping and tugging the hand of her father, who skips alongside her. 

The sight brings a soft smile to her lips and she realizes that they haven’t said thank you to Scott after he got them out of FBI custody.

(everything that happened after they got her mother back had been a blur to her and the rapid loss of adrenaline, the lack of sleep and sheer exhaustion caught up to her very quickly. 

She slept for two days straight.)

Hope decides that it wouldn’t hurt if she passes by his house and express her appreciation, since she’s already out and about anyway. A smile and a thank you should be enough, she thinks. It will take less than five minutes.

_Easy._

And that’s how she ends up pressing the ringer of Scott Lang’s front door, with her new hat inside the car, which is safely hidden in a small box inside one of her pockets.

The bookstore below his apartment is closed for the night and the street lights give the corner an otherworldly glow. She had circled the area thrice to make sure no one was following her, paying little mind to the few security cameras around because she made sure Scott’s apartment was a blind spot when she kidnapped him.

(a smile and a thank you— just a smile and a thank you)

She knows she shouldn’t be here. Not just for her sake but also for Scott’s— if they find out he’s associating with anyone violating the Accords, his probation’s going to be revoked and he’s going to go back to jail.

(she read the Accords; she knows what the consequences are)

And yet… here she is.

A wave of panic suddenly goes over her. What if she’d been sloppy with her tracks and had been identified? What if she hasn’t realized someone’s following her? The FBI could have tracked her down and is just waiting for the right time to arrest her. And she’s leading them right to Scott.

This is not just a bad idea, this is the _worst_ idea ever.

She quickly goes to leave. He probably isn’t even home, she thinks, he has a new job and a fledgling business that needs his focus.

(Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ )

She gave Scott so much grief about not thinking things through and here she is, doing the exact same thing. Maybe she should have talked to her parents first—hell, they’d probably suggest they give Scott, Luis, Dave, and Kurt a gift, which is a better way to say thank you.

“Hope?”

She turns around and sees Scott standing by the doorway, holding a kitchen towel

A bright, warm smile appears on his face, “Hi.” He enthusiastically says, eyes twinkling.

She doesn’t know why her heart skips a beat.

(because despite all she told herself in the past two years – that Scott Lang’s presence in her life was just a minute speck in her ongoing existence— she’s had school crushes longer than their unlabeled-other-stuffing-together relationship, for crying out loud – the fact is, she missed him. _Terribly_.)

It feels as though she spends an eternity standing on the curb staring at him.

“Hi.” She manages to croak out.

Hope takes a step towards him, opening her mouth to say thank you but immediately closes it when she realizes she doesn’t know what else to say.

(a simple thank you and a smile wouldn’t suffice; she’s familiar enough with the way he thinks that she knows she needs to be specific or else he’ll make the conversation longer. He’ll make everything awkward and then he'll diffuse the mood with a joke and a charming smile. 

It gets her every time. 

Barraging him with details would give her the leeway to leave)

He goes down the steps and pokes his head out, scanning their surroundings, “Come on in.” he says in a low, almost conspiratorial tone, motioning for her to go inside.

Scott waits for her to pass through the doorway and follows her quickly, closing the door behind him.

They’re standing too close to each other—the distance between the stairs and the front door is narrower than she remembers but then again, the last time she was here, she had to carefully drag his unconscious body down the stairs.

Scott locks the door and whirls around, shoving the towel in his jeans pocket. “Hi.” He greets again, this time with a goofy grin plastered on his face.

“Hi.” She greets back with a somewhat tentative smile.

She waits for him to ask what made her drop by the neighborhood. It’s easier that way— it makes it sound like she’s here with a purpose.

But he doesn’t say anything. In fact, Scott is looking at her like he can’t quite believe she’s in front of him.

Hope can feel him breathing, can feel the heat radiating off his skin and she takes a step back, to give both of them a semblance of personal space. 

“I dropped by to say thank you.” She starts, “For breaking us out of FBI custody and for helping us get my mom back. I don’t think we would’ve been _that_ successful if you weren’t there. So… thank you.”

He waves it off, “It was my fault you got caught— and why you’re running from the FBI in the first place.”

She shrugs, “But getting caught would have cost you Cassie and you still broke us out.” And she knows he’ll sacrifice everything for Cassie. “I think that requires a thank you.”

“Cassie figured out I was Ant-Man again and told me to help.”

“You have a very smart daughter.”

“Yes, I do.” Scott grins, “And I’m glad you have your mom back.”

On their first morning together after thirty years, her mother held her hand as they sat beside each other in the tiny kitchen of their safe house while Hank cooked breakfast. The memory of it makes her smile, “Me too.”

She doesn’t know how long they stare at each other by the door but little by little, his grin is replaced by an expression so gentle it makes her chest ache.

(He always looked at her like that when he thought she couldn’t see him. It’s what made him so different from everyone else she had dated/fucked/everything in between. 

It’s probably why it hurt so much when he stole the suit and went to Germany)

Bad, _bad_ idea.

“I have to go.” She says and plasters a big smile on her face. “Thank you again, Scott, and good luck—with everything. Say hello to Cassie for me.”

For most people, it’s a signal that the conversation has ended and that – maybe – they should step away from the door, so she can leave. But he doesn’t move and keeps staring at her as though he didn’t hear what she just said.

“Scott, I have to—”

“—would you like to stay for dinner?” Scott asks, hurriedly. “I, uh… I may have cooked too much spaghetti and I couldn’t eat it all by myself—well, no, I know I _can_ eat all of it, but I also know I _shouldn’t_.”

Hope blinks.

“I’m sure you can control yourself.” She says slowly.

“What if I can’t?” the overly serious tone he adopts is something she’s only heard when he’s joking around Cassie, “What if I eat all of it and I get sick for a week and then die?”

A laugh almost escapes her, and she shakes her head instead, “I really should go, Scott—”

“—It’s very good spaghetti.”

“I’m wanted by the FBI—”

“—The _best_ spaghetti you’ll ever taste.”

“And if they catch me with you, you’ll be breaking your plea deal and you go back to jail.”

His face drops. She didn’t want to sound like a spoilsport, as she had been in the months they were training and doing things together but at least this time, nobody would say she’s being maybe, sort-of, a little bit unreasonable.

He still doesn’t move away from the door.

“Scott.” His name comes out as a sigh, “I need to get through the door to be able to leave.”

“I know, I know.” He replies, almost apologetically. “I’m just trying to think of something that can make you stay.”

He’s being charming and sincere and sweet but he’s also being an idiot.

(and yet, there was a part of her that knew she’s going to be convinced to stay, which is why she’s already mapped out her escape route from the apartment just in case the FBI comes and breaks down the doors.

She was going to allow herself to be convinced to stay despite the danger, so who’s the real idiot between the two of them?)

Hope shoves her hands in her pockets to stop herself from doing anything impulsive—like, maybe kiss him, “Scott.” She says his name again, slower this time, as if it’s going to convince him to step away from the door.

“Have I told you the spaghetti’s really good? I had two years to perfect it.”

He flashes her a hopeful look that borders into a puppy face and it’s unfair how he can weaponize that expression when the last time she tried giving that look to anyone, she got detention.

She exhales loudly, “Just how much spaghetti did you cook?”

“A _lot_.” He answers, “Maybe enough for four people who eat like Kurt, Dave and Luis after a hard day’s work. And Luis is out with his cousin so it’s just me about to eat bowl after bowl of pasta.”

“All right.”

(This is a bad idea)

“All right what?”

(It’s shameful that she’s caving in so easily. She used to have more discipline than this.)

“I’ll help you eat some of the spaghetti.”

The way his face lights up makes her stomach all aflutter. He steers her towards the stairs, resting his hand on the small of her back.

“It’s a little messy upstairs, just a heads up.”

“When has it not been messy?” she amusedly replies.

The living room isn’t as cluttered as she had expected it to be and thinks that maybe he’s learned to clean up after himself in the two years he’s been on house arrest, but immediately changes her mind when she sees the dining room and the kitchen.

There are two large pots on the table and at least one more in the sink. Red sauce stains the walls by the stove and there seem to be more splattered across the counter. A wooden spoon was carelessly tossed on the dining table and there are too many forks out of the silverware drawer.

And then there are the bowls and bowls of pasta and red sauce on the table.

“This is… wow.” She says, gaping at the chaos. He wasn’t kidding when he said he cooked too much spaghetti. 

All she can see in this kitchen is spaghetti.

“Yeah,” he replies, sheepishly, “I went grocery shopping after two years and didn’t read the labels.” He goes towards the counter and starts clearing the mess. “Do you know they sell five pounds of pasta in one pack?”

No, she did not know that. “You cooked five pounds of pasta for yourself and didn’t notice?”

“I didn’t think five pounds of pasta would be this much pasta.”

Hope stares at him, flabbergasted. Scott embarrassedly looks away and clears the dining table of all the bowls except for one, and the sauce.

She texts Hank that she’ll be having dinner somewhere else.

“What wine would you pair with spaghetti?” He asks after a while, as he opens a cabinet in the kitchen.

“Chianti.” She answers absent-mindedly, as her phone buzzes twice. Hank knows exactly where she’s having dinner and his reply involves a vague threat to Scott while her mother replies with what Hope assumes is ‘enjoy dinner’ in emoji.

(her mom got the hang of emojis really fast)

“Oooh, I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti.”

She looks up from her phone, eyes narrowing, “ _Whose_ liver did you eat?”

Scott slowly turns around and looks at her. This time, it’s his turn to stare at her dumbfoundedly. “You’ve never seen _Silence of the Lambs_?”

“Hannibal Lecter and Jodie Foster?”

“Clarice Sterling.” He corrects, “But yes, those two.”

“No, I haven’t seen it.” She shrugs and slips her phone inside her pocket, “I was too busy trying to impress Hank to watch movies about cannibals.”

“Hey now, you’re talking about an Academy Award-winning cannibal,” Scott quips before closing the cupboards, “I’m sorry, I thought we have wine, but Luis must have brought it to Ignacio’s.”

“Water’s fine, Scott.”

“I have something better.” He opens the refrigerator door and brings out two bottles of beer. He motions for her to take a seat, “It’s not your favorite, but Luis got this in a craft brewery thing whatever and it’s surprisingly good, and—"

“—Scott, it’s okay. Really.” She says and smiles at him because she’s starting to feel he’s regretting asking her to stay for dinner with the rate he’s babbling right now.

He stops talking and stares at her for a few seconds while holding bottles of beer in each hand. “Right, right.” He finally says, walking towards the table where he sets down the bottles, “C’mon, have a seat. I’ll get you a plate.”

It takes several minutes for Scott to settle down, but by the time he finally sits down across her, the bottle caps on the beers are gone, there’s a basket of garlic bread in between them and there’s spaghetti on their plates.

(her stomach grumbles so loud she’s surprised he didn’t hear it)

“Buon appetito.” He says happily and kisses his fingers similar to an overzealous Italian-American celebrity chef on TV.

She takes a bite.

Then another.

And then another.

“Is it that good or is this your first meal today?” Scott jokingly asks.

She remembers how Scott fussed whenever she became so engrossed with work that she’d forget to eat and decides to ignore the latter comment because her first and only meal before this was the bagel this morning, “I think it’s good.” She says and twirls the pasta in her fork, “ _Very_ good.”

(and to be honest, she didn’t quite expect the food to be _this_ delicious. He wasn’t kidding when he said he had two years to perfect the recipe)

“Are you sure? You don’t think it’s a little too oily?”

“I mean, it’s a little bit sweet for my taste, but I find that I don’t mind it too much? I like it— I like how it doesn’t feel too heavy in the stomach.” She adds, because she thinks he’s actually asking for a constructive feedback, “It’s not oily.”

When the proud grin appears on his face, she feels a surge of warmth springing from her chest. She can’t help but smile back.

(they used to have these lulls whether they’re in the gym or in the lab where they just end up staring at each other. Back then, it didn’t annoy Hank that much since he was preoccupied with working on the suit and it’s a momentary reprieve from Scott bothering him about the design)

She turns away first and resumes eating.

For a while, the only thing that can be heard in the dining room was the sound of forks and knives scraping against plates as they eat their dinner.

“We’re okay, right?” Scott asks suddenly, breaking the silence. 

She doesn’t say anything, merely raising a brow in response, which prompts him to continue. 

“I mean, you kissed me in the harbor – yeah, don’t you think I’ve forgotten about _that_ – and I got the sense that what I did – not thinking about consequences, stealing the suit, going to Germany, getting you and Hank in some serious trouble – is now a bridge under the water—”

“—water under the bridge.”

“Right, water, bridge, under.” He nods his head in agreement, even though Hope knows he knows what the real phrase is, “But I feel it’s the general kind of okay. The I-don’t-have-to-keep-worrying-about-Hank-sending-an-army-of-bullet-ants-to-my-bed-while-I-sleep kind of okay.”

She doesn’t tell him she had to stop Hank from doing that during the first week of his house arrest.

“Dad isn’t angry anymore.” She tells him, “No need to worry about the bullet ants.”

“Right, that’s great.” Scott replies, contemplatively nodding his head, “Okay.” He says, although that sounds more like it’s directed to himself than to her.

Hope watches him nod his head for several more seconds before turning her attention back to dinner, but Scott starts talking again.

“I’ve done a lot of dumb things.” 

She fakes a wince, “Really?” She teases lightly and reaches for her beer. “I never would have known.”

“And one of the dumbest things I ever did was hurting you.”

Scott says it so somberly, so _gravely_ that she freezes, her hand hovering on top of the beer bottle. 

It feels time stopped and the only thing in motion is her heart beating against her chest.

It’s a specific topic that Hank avoided bringing up – not even in his rants about the poor choice he made with his successor – and something she tried not to think about.

“Honestly?” She starts, regaining her composure quickly and takes the bottle before taking a sip of her beer. “I never had time to think about it.”

And it was partly true. The past two years had been chaos. They were on the run, building a quantum tunnel without knowing if her mother’s still alive, with a handful of people to trust. She and Hank ate, drank, and breathed science with a healthy dose of paranoia.

(yes, she was hurt, she was angry, and she was scared but she kept it in until it was time to pull out the mats and beat the living daylights out of her fight dummies. To _let_ herself think about Scott at any other time would have been a distraction.

They couldn’t afford a distraction)

Something changes in Scott’s face and he abruptly stands up, seemingly in panic, “Wait here, okay? I’m going to get something upstairs.” He says as he hurriedly leaves the room, “Don’t leave!” he says and dashes up the stairs.

Hope lets out a shaky breath as she sets the fork down and leans back on the chair. She doesn’t have to remind herself that this had been a bad idea to start with, but she never anticipated that a visit to Scott would lead to a dinner where they talk about _feelings_.

Her ribs begin to ache again, reminding her that she’s still also not physically at a hundred percent.

(how many times can she file this idea under ‘very bad’?)

She takes a garlic bread from the basket and nibbles on it as she listens to the Scott’s harried footsteps above her head, with what sounds like furniture being moved around.

(maybe she should pretend that the conversation never happened?)

Finally, she hears him sprint down the stairs, wheezing as he takes the chair beside her and sits down.

“Are you okay?” she asks, eyeing him with concern when she sees his red face.

He waves away her worry as he tries to catch his breath, “I’m fine,” he pulls one of those faces, “Still tired from last week. I kinda let myself go the past few years.”

Physically, Scott hadn’t changed much— yes, he’s paler from being inside the house too long and his form, though good, is a little rusty. But for him to say that he let himself go is an over-exaggeration.

“Maybe you’re just old.” She offers.

Faux outrage appears on his face, “O _uch_.” He melodramatically says, laying a hand on his chest, as though she’d hurt him physically, “You sure know how to pull your punches, Ms. Van Dyne.”

She smiles as she rolls her eyes at him, “So, what’s so important upstairs you had to run?”

“Oh, right.” He shows her the box he’s holding in his left hand and gives it to her, “I finished this last year. I think you, Hank and Janet will have more use for it than I do.”

Hope opens the box and finds a small replica of those giant radios she mostly saw in antique stores. She gives him a questioning look.

“It’s a frequency scanner that can detect the FBI’s radios within a five-mile radius.” He explains, “I had this _really_ crazy idea during the second month of my house arrest that I should probably go find you guys when my two years were up.”

She stares at the radio and lifts it out of the box. It’s made of wood; not painted, only varnished. Scott’s design is simple and follows the design conventions of an antique radio, yet the tiny details in the knobs and the buttons, some of it a designing quirk he got from Hank, were meticulously carved.

“That was before I realized that you probably hate me for making you and Hank one of FBI’s most wanted. But I was almost finished with the wiring and I _really_ got into woodworking.”

Sometimes, Scott does the most ridiculous things that everyone – including her – forgets he’s an exceptional engineer with a fine eye for detail.

She places the radio on top of the table, “How do you know it works?” she asks, admiring his wooden masterpiece.

He takes the radio and shows her how to switch it on, pressing a button on the back. A green light starts to blink, “Uh, I deliberately set off my ankle monitor several times while Kurt and Dave sat in a car a few blocks away, testing it?” 

And the reason why they keep forgetting he’s an exceptional engineer with a good eye for detail is because when no one stops him, his plans veer toward the harebrained category and it’s a wonder they only caught him for the VistaCorp job when he’s done so much more burgling before that.

“Although Hank might have a more sophisticated scanner that could probably also detect aliens from space, but I thought if I showed you…” he suddenly trails off.

When she glances at him to check why he stopped talking, he avoids her gaze and looks away, “I don’t want you to think that I never cared, or never thought of you or worried about you while I was under house arrest. And… maybe, you might not had the time think about us in the past two years, but I know that once you’re given even the briefest amount of time to think, any decision you’ll reach will be well-thought-out – I mean, it’s _scary_ how you see the tiniest details when you’re given fifteen minutes to just _think_ …”

The energy in the room becomes more subdued as he continues, and Hope knows that it’s a conversation they need to have even if she’d rather just… not.

“…so, what more would you be able to see when you’re given a week? And… when I saw how reluctant you were a while ago, I know that if I don’t say anything to make you stay, I'll never see you again.”

“You said so yourself, I kissed you in the harbor,” she lightly says because it’s unsettling to see Scott so serious, “How can we not be okay after that?”

He doesn’t move, “Maybe…” he trails off again and he shrugs, “You lacked sleep, your dad was rescuing your mom, and there was a chance you might lose them both, and everything was happening at the same time and I kind of thought you probably forgot I wronged you in the worst possible way.” He replies earnestly.

She rests her elbow on the table and lifts her hand, resting her chin on top of it, “You _did_ wrong me in the worst possible way,” she replies and angles her head. “But we’re okay, stop worrying about it. How many times do you need me to tell you that before you believe me?” she says gently.

“I believe you, it’s just that… you’re very good with grudges. You delight having grudges. You love collecting grudges and if you can put grudges in a bottle, you’d show them off like it’s your butterfly collection—or your rock collection.”

“That is the compete opposite of believing me when I said we’re okay.” She flatly says.

He shakes his head, “I don’t know, I feel like you’re letting me off the hook too easily, maybe—”

A tired sigh escapes her.

“Hope, hear me out, please?” he asks and only continues when she nods her head, “Stealing the suit and going to Germany was so incredibly stupid, and I know saying sorry won’t even make up for the fact that I pretty much ruined your life, anyway what I’m saying is you don’t have to say that we’re okay if we’re not bec—”

She kisses him.

(she has long abandoned her attempts to understand how she fell in love with someone who is so dumb and so smart at the same time)

It takes him by surprise, but he recovers _very_ quickly, cupping her face with his hands as he kisses her back, fervently, making up for the fact that though she kissed him in the harbor (several times), he’d been too overwhelmed to kiss her back.

She nips the bottom of his lip, eliciting a low rumble from his chest. One of his hands finds a way to the back of her neck to keep her close.

(it was supposed to be a short kiss, mostly intended for him to shut up.

This one’s better)

“You’re an idiot.” She breathlessly says when they part.

Scott chuckles, almost in relief, “I know.” He replies, kissing the corner of her lips, “I’m sorry.” He murmurs before planting another one by her jaw.

Gently, she pulls his face towards her, kissing him again before he starts getting frisky, keeping it soft this time, without any of the heat that accompanied the first.

They lean against each other when she pulls away, resting her forehead against his. Her right hand is on top of his chest protectively, as if she’s guarding the strong heartbeat underneath her fingertips.

“Are you sure you don’t need me to go through a near-death experience?” he playfully asks.

“You already did.” She replies and presses her lips on the side of his head before completely pulling away from him and his warmth, “In the docks. You weren’t breathing when I got you out of the water.”

“Oh.”

(she wonders what she would have done if everything had gone wrong and she lost everyone she loved in that pier. If she had lost Scott, her father and her mother, would she have been angry enough to kill?)

“Hey.” Scott softly says, touching her arm. The look on his face tells her that he knows exactly what she’s thinking, “We’re all here.”

She immediately pushes the thought away. Somehow, everybody got a happy ending and that’s something that she needs to celebrate, not dwelling on some what-if scenario that never came to be.

Hope musters a smile, “Can we maybe go back to eating now?” she asks, deciding that it’s time to stop talking about feelings.

“Are you _sure_ this isn’t your first meal of the day?”

She rolls her eyes, “I had a bagel for breakfast.”

Scott kisses her cheek before going back to his seat, “Save space for dessert.” He says as he gives her another serving of pasta.

They resume eating. Hope stops herself from complimenting the chef after a while because every time she gives him one, Scott turns into an overindulgent grandmother who dumps pasta on her plate.

“Is there a way for me to convince you to stay for the night aside from making you go into a food coma?” He asks, breaking the silence once again, “We have some spare – and unused – toothbrushes lying around, I have a variety of shirts to choose from for you to use as a pajama and I can make a mean omelet for breakfast.”

“Will that omelet be the best omelet I’ll ever taste?”

“Probably not.” He answers, frowning, “Or, we can have pancakes. Or waffles, if Luis wakes up first and hogs the kitchen. Or….” he trails off and looks at her expectantly.

She glances at the radio, its green light steady, before taking a sip of her beer.

(here she goes again, giving in without a fight)

“Or,” she starts, picking up where he left off, “You could try asking me.”

(much later, after she shows him her parents’ text messages, after they’ve finished watching _Silence of the Lambs_ in the living room, after she brushes her teeth with one of the spare toothbrushes, and after picking a faded Cal Poly shirt to sleep on, she’d tell him she first thought this visit was a bad idea.

He’d settle beside her in the bed, wrapping his arms around her, “In the words of the great Jack Donaghy, there are no bad ideas, only great ideas that go horribly wrong.”

“Jack Donaghy isn’t a real person.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true”

He’ll steal a kiss.)

A face-splitting grin appears on Scott’s face, a grin she can’t help but mirror on her own.

Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed the fic as much as I wrote it, except I didn't expect it to be this long. Comments are <3


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